Hard Crimson
by TheLadyLepida
Summary: When an ordinary Bemidjii resident has a seemingly mundane encounter with two outsiders at a bar, she finds herself growing dangerously involved with the violent events perpetrated by both them and the mysterious drifter, Lorne Malvo. Naturally, shenanigans ensue and it all goes downhill from there.
1. A Spark to Ignite

This story can also be found on Archive of Our Own under the same penname. The version there will be more explicit in way of sexual content.

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**Disclaimer:**

1.) 'Fargo' belongs to Ethan and Joel Coen.

2.) The title of the story can be found in Anna Akhmatova's poem, 'You Will Hear Thunder.'

3.) 'My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark' belongs to Fall Out Boy.

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**A/N:**

1.) I know how annoying original characters can be, but I just couldn't get this out of my system any other way than writing it down. Besides, I have a few other non-original character Fargo stories in mind, mostly involving Mr. Wrench/Molly Solverson. x3 (The side pairing for this story is Gus/Molly instead.) But for now, I hope this turns out to be a fun read, original character and all. xDD

**Trigger(s) for this story:**

Language-including ableist and sexist language, sexual content (most of which will be toned down on this site), sl*t shaming, and violence.

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**Chapter One **

_B-B-B-Be careful making wishes in the dark, dark_

_Can't be sure when they've hit their mark _

* * *

"Hey. Look at that cutie over there."

No response except for a sigh and roll of the eyes.

"Bitch, don't you roll your eyes at me."

"Whatever."

She takes a sip of her drink, Jack and Coke. Sweet, too sweet. She wants vodka, but is already tipsy enough as it is. The bar is filled with a variety of sounds: people talking, glasses clinking, people playing pool, and a voice on television yammering on about some sports game.

"C'mon, at least look at the guy."

"Which guy? Almost everybody here is male."

"Over there."

"Where is there exactly? Who exactly am I supposed to be looking at?"

Her answer is an annoyed huff, and a jab of the finger in the direction of a red-haired man slouched at a table near the bar.

"You're not looking."

She allows herself a slight glance, taking in the man's short red-brown hair and the strong build beneath his fringed coat, then goes back to her drink. She takes another sip. Almost all gone; she _really _wants a shot of vodka.

"You got nothing to say about that?"

She spares another look, more wary this time. The redhead's quiet, but there's an underlying tension in the way he's sitting, a position that belies relaxation, but she can tell that he's pissed off. Quiet, drunk, and pissed off is not a good combination; it's the kind of drunk that should be avoided more than anything else.

"I can't see him well, but I guess he looks good from here."

She can only see the back of his head and a bare outline of his face; she wouldn't mind seeing more. She likes redheads.

"Jesus, if you want to get a better look at him, let's move to that table over there."

Before she can protest, her Best Friend snatches up both of their drinks and makes her way over to an empty table positioned closer to the bar and a few feet directly across from where the redhead's sitting. She sighs and follows, if only to finish the rest of her damn drink. As she sits down in her new seat, she notices with some unease that the redhead looks even more angrier up close. When he's not glaring at his drink, he's scowling at a dark-haired man who is standing by the bar, currently chugging down a glass of beer as if his life depended upon it. He's deliberately ignoring the redhead's glares. She can tell that there's some sort of building tension between the two and she wants no part of it.

"_Well?_"

"Well what?"

"Go say something to him, you chickenshit!"

"What the hell would I say to a complete stranger?"

"Well, most people who are hardwired to interacting with their fellow humans usually start off a conversation with the standard "hi," but seeing as you've been malfunctioning since birth, you still need me to give you guidance." Chickenshit cringes. Best Friend had said that a little louder than was necessary, and they were now receiving some odd stares.

_Great, now that dick by the bar is snickering. Like he has anything to chuckle about; not with all that facial hair and that ridiculous hairstyle. Who slicks their hair back like that anyway? Douches, that's who. _

Chickenshit knocks back the rest of her drink, savoring the dregs at the bottom of the cup. She's not nearly drunk enough for Best Friend's usual bullshit. Pulling herself up from her chair, she makes her way to the bar, ignoring Best Friend's request for another drink (lazyass can get it herself) and orders a shot of vodka straight up. The bartender eyes her warily, taking in her five foot two build and the whiskey on her breath. She's about to say something pissy, but the bartender serves her her vodka and she immediately knocks it back, enjoying the warm, tingling sensation that crawls from her throat all the way down to the pit of her stomach.

"Hey bitch! Bring me one!" Chickenshit rolls her eyes and gives Best Friend the finger. Half the bar is now staring at the two women like they're crazy and the bartender looks annoyed. Best Friend inspired these sorts of looks everywhere she went. Chickenshit usually had the misfortune of being with her when Best Friend decided to make an ass out of herself.

Chickenshit orders a second shot. Then a third. As she's drinking the third shot, she catches the dark-haired man watching her. She feels a flare of anger when he looks her up and down, from head to toe, with an expression of contempt. He then starts making a series of complicated (to her, anyway) hand signs, but not at her. Looking over her shoulder, Chickenshit notices that the redhead is signing back. If the look on his face and the furious way he was signing was anything to go by, he was pissed. She watched them go back and forth, mesmerized. The dark-haired man shot her an annoyed look, as if she were intruding on some private conversation, despite the fact that he was the one having it out with his friend very publicly in, of all places, a bar. Refusing to be intimidated, she continued watching.

At one point in their silent, yet intense conversation, the redhead slams his hands down on the table and was in the motions of jumping out of his seat, as if he was going to lunge at his companion. Chickenshit flinched at this, but the dark-haired man just rolled his eyes and made a sign that, even to her, who couldn't speak sign language to save her life, was utterly dismissive. Chickenshit expected the redhead to come over and throw the first punch, start the inevitable fight that had been brewing up to a dangerous boil, but he slowly slid back down in his seat, his face contorted with anger. His friend smiles smugly at him before turning back to his drink. Chickenshit released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

_Suddenly, I feel like I'm not drunk enough._

Chickenshit orders another shot for herself, then two more, telling the skeptical bartender that one is for Best Friend (it isn't). As she turns to head back to her table with her drinks, she bumps hard into the redhead who apparently has the stealth of a goddamn ninja and had been standing silently behind her, waiting his turn to order another drink. Chickenshit cringes when she notices a dark blot steadily growing on his jacket where she spilled one of the vodkas. She looks up at him (he's practically a whole foot taller than her), expecting him to unleash his anger out on her, but he only stares down at her with vague annoyance.

Now that she's standing closer to him, she realizes just how good-looking he really is. Taking in his green-blue eyes, the well-sculpted face, and the old-fashioned sideburns that would've looked stupid on anyone else but him, Chickenshit, in her accelerated drunken state, mentally notes that the redhead has a very nice face. The kind of face she would give her left ovary to look at during a good fuck instead of being stuck with some loser she wishes would just stick a paper bag over his head so she can pretend that he's Rufus Sewell.

She jumps when she suddenly feels a hand clap down on her shoulder. It's the dark-haired man, and he's laughing his ass off. "That's just cute. Let me tell him what you said. He'll love it."

Chickenshit stares in abject horror as he translates what she said (_out loud!?) _to the redhead. The redhead stares at her in astonishment, and Chickenshit can't help but think how he cute he looks with his face all scrunched up like that; adorable, really.

_Why is that asshole still laughing? Fuck, was I thinking out loud again? _

"You sure were!" He claps her on the back in good-natured camaraderie and immediately goes on to translate her comment about how "adorable" she thought the redhead looked. Chickenshit turns her gaze to the floor, feeling her face grow hot.

_God, please kill me now. _The bar had become uncomfortably quiet (aside from the noise from the t.v. and that dickhead's ongoing laughter) and Best Friend was suddenly standing beside her, tugging at her arm, talking to her in that in the kind of tone that a bestie uses when her friend embarrasses herself and she wants to make a quiet rescue.

Chickenshit dares to take a small glance at the redhead and ducks her head again at the expression on his face. It's unreadable and thus, she expects the worst. _Why the hell do I think I out loud whenever I get drunk? _

"It's a gift," the dark-haired man replies cheerfully, clapping her on the shoulder again. "Would you like me to translate that one too?"

"Leave her alone, asshole!" Best Friend snaps, shoving his hand away. Turning back to Chickenshit, she says, "C'mon, sweetie, let's go sit down."

She's wearing her best, condescending Mother face (which Chickenshit _hates) _and she's still tugging at her arm. It's all getting very fucking annoying.

"I don't want to sit down," Chickenshit says, her words slightly slurred and she yanks her arm out of Best Friend's grasp so hard that she staggers and bumps into the redhead. _Again. _

She's surprised when she feels his firm hands latch onto her shoulders, steadying her. His hands are big and his fingers are long and thin. He's not wearing gloves and she had taken off her overcoat so that she's only in her hoodie and thickest sweater through which she can feel the heat of his hands.

She can feel her face growing hot all over again, but she manages to look up at him and the redhead's face is curiously vacant of expression. Slowly, he removes his hands and before he can get the chance to walk around her, Chickenshit holds out the other vodka that, by some sort of miracle, she managed not to spill when she bumped into him for the second time as a peace offering. He stares at it for a few seconds, stares at her, and then looks back at the vodka. Just when she thinks he's going to refuse it, he accepts the glass, his fingers brushing against hers (_was that intentional?)_. He knocks it back and Chickenshit can't help but stare at the long, smooth column of his throat as he swallows.

When he's through, he makes a noise that seems to convey contentment and places the shotglass on the bar. Much to her surprise, instead of going back to ignoring her as she expected, he makes a hand sign that Chickenshit can only assume means "thank you."

Unfortunately, his dickhead friend feels the need to add his own translation and completely ruin the moment. "He says 'thank you' and could he get a blowjob with that vodka?"

"He did not say that!" Chickenshit snaps at him. _At least I hope not. _

Asshole Extraordinaire cocks a brow at her. "Who's the one that can speak sign language here?"

"You deliberately misinterpreted what he actually said," Best Friend snarls. Chickenshit is surprised by the hostility in her voice. This guy meets all the requirements of the guys she likes to date.

"Are you accusing me of being an unreliable translator?"

Before Chickenshit can say _yes, we are calling you a fucking unreliable translator,_ the redhead turns from the bar where he was making his order and punches his friend in the shoulder. Dickhead scowls at him and the redhead makes a gesture that clearly states, _get lost._

The dark-haired man rolls his eyes and shrugs, ambling off in the direction of the restrooms.

"God, what a prick," Best Friend mutters in disgust before turning to Chickenshit. "As for you, you have clearly had enough to drink. Let's grab our shit and head home."

Chickenshit feels a surge of anger at the order she can hear in Best Friend's tone and is about ready to tell her to go fuck herself (a clear indication of the vodkas working their magic because she _never _argues with Best Friend), but she is (thankfully) saved from starting a fight with Best Friend when she feels a nudge at her shoulder.

Chickenshit turns around and the redhead wordlessly hands her one of the two drinks he's holding. She can tell it's bourbon by the smell. Even though she knows she's definitely had enough by now, she takes a sip anyway.

"Thanks." Somehow, she manages not to slur it, but took some effort.

He acknowledges her thank-you with a nod and then, much to her surprise, he makes a gesture at her, then at himself, and finally at his table. Chickenshit can't speak sign language (although she now wishes that could), but even she understands what he's trying to convey to her. He wants her to sit and drink with him.

Best Friend, who is still hovering at her side, manages to process this faster than Chickenshit and immediately snatches one of the chairs at their table and drags it over. As the redhead takes his seat, Best Friend hisses some quick advice in her ear (which is ridiculous because the guy's deaf) that involves condoms, sexy underwear, and the best way to take it up the ass, as if Chickenshit's just going to go straight to fucking the redhead on the table in the middle of the bar.

"Look, I'll buy you another drink if you'll back off already," she finally snaps, making a shooing motion at Best Friend. Best Friend gives her the thumbs up and sashays back to the table they had been sharing.

Chickenshit is finally able to sit down, and she and the redhead stare at each other for an awkward moment. She takes a sip of her bourbon, wondering what she could possibly do in making conversation.

Her companion figures it out before she does, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and a generic pen. He smooths it out on the table, writes something down, and then passes both the paper and the pen over to her. His handwriting is in print, small, neatly-written letters pressed close together exactly on the lines.

_You're a lightweight._

Chickenshit feels herself flushing again, and she looks over at him. It's hard to tell in the bar's dim lighting, but she's positive that she's seeing a small smile that transforms his face completely. Somehow, she doesn't feel like she's being made fun of.

She taps the pen on the table while she tries to think of a witty reply, something that'll make him laugh. Can he laugh? If he's deaf, does he laugh out loud or silently? That's a thought for another time.

She's not naturally charming or charismatic like Best Friend, but she's often been told that she has a sort of dry, sarcastic sense of humor. She writes down the first thing that pops up in her mind.

_That's why I drink so much. My doctor tells me I could stand to gain a few pounds. _

God, it sounds so unbelievably stupid, but it's all she can come up with. Her inebriated state is not helping her at all. She passes the note and pen back over, and she feels something flutter in her stomach when his lips pull up into a smirk. He writes his reply down and passes the note and pen back over.

_Your doctor's an idiot. A pretty girl like you seems to know how to have a good time. Is there any way I could convince you to tell me your name? Maybe bribe you with another drink?_

It's really happening. A cute guy in a bar is asking for her name. Chickenshit can't stop the smile from taking over her face. Best Friend is right. This isn't such a bad way to pick up guys. Sure, maybe all he's looking for is a one-night stand, but she'll take it. Hell, she'll fucking him in the bathroom if that he's what he wants (to be honest, it's something she's always wanted to do).

_You don't need to bribe me to find out my name,_ is her saucy reply. This one actually earns her a full-fledged smile. She smiles back and he starts writing his reply down.

Unfortunately, as these things tend to go, they are interrupted by the Douchebag Wonder again. "Don't you two look all warm and cozy." His voice is light and amiable, but there's an edge of meanness to it that Chickenshit doesn't like. She wishes that he had fallen headfirst into a toilet. At least then she wouldn't have had to look at his stupid hair anymore.

Even though the redhead couldn't have possibly heard him walk back up to the bar, he must have had some sort of sixth sense because as soon as his dickhead friend made his comment, his head snapped up and he was back to glaring at him. The tension that had dissolved when Chickenshit had sat down with him was back. She got the feeling that there was something bigger going on here.

The dark-haired man slapped his hand down on the bar to get the bartender's attention. "Bartender, I _tend _to have a, uh, beer and then a little tequila."

The bartender pulls out a glass and comments dryly, "Looks like you already had a few."

"Well then they're working! Alright?" His voice is still light, still friendly.

The bartender serves him his drink and he takes a sip. Then he seems to pick up on the redhead's glares for the first time that evening. "What are you lookin' at?"

Chickenshit feels herself stiffen in her chair. She knows an upcoming fight when she smells it, and the redhead looks about ready to rip out the other man's throat. He slides the note back over to her, but Chickenshit feels so tense that she doesn't even bother to read it, just sticks it in the front pocket of her jeans.

The dark-haired man finishes the rest of his tequila in one gulp. "You know, I'll tell you something."

His voice is no longer friendly.

The redhead leans forward slightly in his seat and Chickenshit prepares herself to leap out of the way when the moment came.

The dark-haired men holds up his empty glass and stares the redhead straight in the eyes. "I. will. put... your eye out!" He yells out the last word and throws his glass down, the sound of it shattering accompanied by the startled yells and gasps of other patrons. Chickenshit dives out of her chair just as the dark-haired man tackles the redhead to the ground.

_And it was going so well,_ Chickenshit thought bitterly as she watched the men grapple with each other. She couldn't help smiling when the redhead got the advantage and got several good punches in.

"Jesus! Are you okay?" Best Friend is standing next to her, tugging insistently at her arm, over and over, and _fucking over again. _

Maybe it was all the drinks she had. Maybe it was the fact that Best Friend was always fucking trying to get her laid as if she couldn't possibly survive without a one-night stand every other weekend. Maybe it was the way she flaunted herself as a teacher of seduction and made Chickenshit feel like the poor little virgin sitting in the corner wearing a dunce cap. Maybe it was that asshole who interrupted her conversation with the redhead. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the way Best Friend won't stop _fucking pulling on her arm. _

Whatever it is, Chickenshit finds herself whipping her arm out of Best Friend's grasp and shoves her so hard that Best Friend stumbles into a table that immediately collapses under her, taking Best Friend and all the drinks it held with it. The angry shrieks of the table's occupants rent the air.

Chickenshit finds herself astonished by what she's done, and yet... It's a rush that feels pretty damn good. Best Friend gapes at her from the ground, surrounded by broken glass and drenched in alcohol. Meanwhile, the two men are still going at it. Chickenshit gets momentarily distracted by the dark-haired man shoving the redhead into a glass case containing trophies and other memorabilia.

Best Friend takes advantage of this and tackles her just as Chickenshit focuses her attention on her again. The two women bounce off the bar and fall to the floor, rolling over broken glass and furniture.

As if from a distance, Chickenshit hears the bartender screaming. "Somebody call the damn cops already!"

Best Friend is on top of her, ripping at her hair so hard that Chickenshit feels tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. She shrieks when Best Friend suddenly and without warning punches her in the eye. Somehow she manages to land a clumsy punch of her own that makes Best Friend squeal in pain and scrambles out from under her. She doubles over, winded, when Best Friend plants her fist in her kidney, but manages to elbow her in the face when she comes at her again.

Chickenshit manages to get back on her feet first (although she is swaying dangerously), as Best Friend is having a hard time in her sexy high-heeled boots whereas she's wearing practical Doc Martins. The sight is so hilarious that she can't help but laugh. She feels a savage sense of joy as she knocks Best Friend's feet out from under her and goes down again, cursing. The rush just feels so damn good. She may not be getting laid tonight, but she's getting something else that's just as good: beating the shit out of her too perfect, too beautiful best friend.

This amazing feeling lasts for a few more seconds, before she's tackled by what feels like a freight train and pinned to the ground.

"Put your hands behind your back! NOW!"

Oh god, she recognizes that voice. It's her brother. Chickenshit hisses in pain as her brother handcuffs her wrists together behind her back. He rolls off her and pulls her to her feet none too gently.

His handsome face is twisted in a mixture of annoyance and disgust. "Jesus, sis, seriously? I get a fucking call about a bar fight and you're involved?"

Chickenshit flushes, but finds herself unable to reply. The rush is gone and she's shaking from the adrenaline. She's too ashamed to look at her brother in the eyes and instead takes in the carnage that she helped create. The floor is glittering with shards of broken glass. Several tables and chairs are lying overturned, with their legs pointing upwards like those of dead animals and the overwhelming smell of spilled alcohol permeates the room. The glass in the trophy case on the opposite wall is shattered and several of its contents lie on the ground. If she squints really hard, she can see streaks of blood gleaming under the colorful light of the neon signs.

Her eyes search out the redhead and she finds him and his companion near the end of the bar, handcuffed and taking breathalyzers. The redhead catches her staring and sends her what seems to be an apologetic expression, as if he's sorry for how the night turned out.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her brother snarls after he reads her her rights and pats her down. "How much did you have tonight?"

"A lot." Her words slur, and the combination of vodka, whiskey, and bourbon in her stomach is now starting to roil like the sea before a storm.

"I can see that," her brother snaps and has her take a breathalyzer. He looks at the results and shakes his head in disgust.

"Jesus, what is the matter with you? What do you think Mom and Dad are going to say when they find out?"

"They can go take a short walk off a cliff," is her reply and her brother flushes in anger and opens his mouth to retort, but he is interrupted by Best Friend's loud, drunken screeching.

"She's the one who assaulted me! Why the hell am I being arrested?"

The cop handling Best Friend looks aggravated already and it hasn't even been ten minutes. "M'am, from what I could see, you were also participating-"

"Fuck you!" Best Friend snaps her glare towards Chickenshit, a glare that used to scare her into submission. Not anymore. "And fuck you too!"

Chickenshit bristles and opens her mouth to fire back an insult of her own, but her brother says, "Don't you say a word," and starts marching her away, leaving the other cop to argue with the belligerent woman that she will be tazed if she does not calm down, and nobody wants that now, do we?

"She's always been trouble," her brother mutters under his breath.

Outside in the parking lot, the snow is falling in fast, stinging flurries and the temperature feels around 40 something Celsius, or even lower. Wearing only her hoodie and sweater (her brother has her jacket tucked under his arm), Chickenshit shivers.

As he leads her towards his patrol car, past the car where the redhead and his "friend" are currently being buckled in, her brother, without looking at her, says, "You do realize you may be fired from the bookstore if your boss finds out about this?"

Chickenshit hadn't thought about that. It's not unlikely considering what a complete bitch Mrs. Watson is, but she's held her position at the bookstore since she was eighteen, and as one of the few competent employees who actually gave a damn, she knows her boss isn't going to give her up that easily. She's been there for almost eight years, a timeline her parents never failed to keep track of ever since she dropped out of college.

"There's always the strip club," she mumbles.

"Don't be cute, sis. Do you _really _want to end up there like your so-called 'best friend?'" He doesn't even wait for her to speak. "Because when you wind up there, that's it. You're done."

"Don't be so dramatic. It's not a death sentence." But inwardly, she grimaces and thinks about all the horror stories Best Friend has told her, the way the women are treated by men like the recently deceased Sam Hess.

Her brother sighs in exasperation. "Sharon's right. You're impossible."

That one stings. Her brother constantly swallowing his fiance's poison is more than she can take. "Because Sharon knows me so well."

"She just wants what's best for you. We all do."

"Oh please," Chickenshit almost breaks out in laughter. "This is exactly why I want to leave. So I don't have to put up with this kind of bullshit from everybody."

They reach his car and her brother opens the back door harder than necessary. He explodes. "Then leave! You've been saying this since you were fucking eleven. You're twenty-five!"

Catching himself, he lowers his voice. "You're free to leave whenever you want. Nothing's holding you back here. God knows we've been waiting for it since you turned eighteen." His stern expression wavers briefly, and Chickenshit catches the sadness in his eyes before he hardens himself again. "I don't know what you think is holding you back, little sister, but whatever it is, you better learn to look ahead and live the way you want, because there's nothing worthwhile about getting into bar fights and hanging out with the same losers you smoked pot with back in high school."

Leave it to the fucking golden child to have a little speech like this ready on the spot. Chickenshit says nothing as her brother helps her slide into the backseat and buckles her up before he takes his place in the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, Best Friend is handcuffed and buckled in right next to her and her brother's partner is pulling them out of the parking lot.

The two women determinedly refuse to look at each other, instead staring out their windows at the snow and long, dark road. Chickenshit takes in her bloody lip and the bruise blossoming around her left eye, courtesy of Best Friend. She was going to have a lovely black eye come morning.

About ten more minutes pass until Chickenshit realizes that she hadn't read the last thing the redhead had written on their note. Thankfully, it was sticking out of her jeans pocket, so it wasn't very difficult to pull it out and unfold it on her lap. Though it's crumpled and has a small tear in it, she can make out his handwriting under the brief light that filters in every time they pass a streetlight.

_Ian. His name's Ian. _

Chickenshit folds the note back up and tries to put it back in her pocket, but it's practically impossible with the handcuffs. So she just wraps both her hands around the note and lets them fall in her lap. She thinks about her knuckles, bloody, and raw and aching.

* * *

_A constellation of tears on your lashes_

_Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes _

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**A/N: **

1.) On a scale of "goddammit" to "fuck you," how annoying was it that I referred to Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers as "the redhead" and "the dark-haired man" over and over for the whole chapter? Yeah, I'm going with "fuck you, author" myself. xDD I hope nobody minds that I gave Mr. Wrench a name. I really don't want to have to refer to him by his script name throughout the whole story because that's just silly, even for Fargo. xD Besides, I highly doubt he or Mr. Numbers would give out their real names anyways.

2.) Also, don't be afraid to let me know if I'm leaving out any triggers that should be warning paragraph. As the show progresses, there may be more triggers and I will add accordingly, but I may forget or not even about a trigger unless it's pointed out to me.

3.) As for Chickenshit and Best Friend, I thought it would be hilarious to refer to them only by silly nicknames or titles seeing as the two hitmen are only known officially as Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench. I haven't decided yet if this is going to be a permanent thing for the whole story, but I thought it would be a hilarious way to introduce them. xDD

4.) On one last note: holy shit, Archive of Our Own is a pain in the ass to post to. I probably spent about ten minutes editing the damn thing after I posted it. I'm going to calm myself down by rewatching episode 5. The jail scene was just so great. Poor Lester. xDD


	2. Exit the Warrior

This story can also be found on Archive of Our Own under the same penname. The version there will be more explicit in way of sexual content.

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**Disclaimer:**

1.) 'Fargo' belongs to Ethan and Joel Coen.

2.) The title of this story can be found in Anna Akhmatova's 'You Will Hear Thunder.'

3.) 'Tom Sawyer' belongs to Rush.

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**A/N:**

1.) First things first: many thanks to everybody who reviewed/faved/followed this story! I am so flattered that this story got such a good reception. :)

2.) I am much more satisfied with this chapter. It came so much easier to me and it was much more fun to write than the first one. Hopefully you all will understand what I mean when you read it. xDD

**Trigger(s) for this story:**

Language-including ableist and sexist language, sexual content (most of which will be toned down on this site), slut-shaming, violence, misogyny, and torture.

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**Chapter Two **

_A modern day warrior_

_Mean, mean stride_

_Today's Tom Sawyer_

_Mean, mean pride _

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The plan was simple: find a public place, get in a fight, get arrested by police, and fuck Lester Nygaard's shit up. Of course, as Mr. "Ian" Wrench had found out, plans never really worked out as they should.

For the most part, it _had _worked out. They went to a bar, got drunk and belligerent (it had helped that both of them had actually been genuinely angry with each other at the time), were subsequently arrested, and now had their target in their grasp, in the isolation of the drunk tank. There would be no escaping this time.

And yet, Wrench, who had always prided himself on getting shit done and often enjoyed the "business" aspect of his life more than "ordinary" pleasures, couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. Even as he and Mr. Numbers casually seated themselves on either side of Nygaard, close enough that their arms were touching his (proximity was one of his favorite intimidation techniques), he was having a hard time separating himself from the unexpected pleasure he had experienced earlier in the evening from the crucial business of the present.

They hadn't gone to that damn bar to pick up women, and he _definitely _should not have derailed from the plan in the first place. While it had succeeded despite his getting somewhat distracted, Wrench was so used to doing things the way he had planned them (and succeeding) without a hitch that this particular failure made him livid. It wasn't what happened in the bar (prior to the staged fight), but rather the few times Nygaard had already wormed his way out of their grasp that had set the fuse and ignited his temper; and it was his stupidity in the bar that made the bomb explode.

But what infuriated him the most was the fact that he had _enjoyed _that woman's company. It had been quite awhile since he had had a half-decent conversation with a member of the fairer sex; strippers didn't count and most other women stopped talking to him when they finally realized in the middle of their yammering that he was deaf, a fact that seemed to intimidate them. That probably also accounted for the fact that he could barely remember the last time he had gotten laid as well. Aside from his perpetual silence, Wrench did not, unlike Numbers, bother with any sort of friendly facade whatsoever. His tactics were fear and intimidation, and he used them well.

Like right now, for example. Nygaard had been sweating up a storm since Wrench and his partner had stepped into the cell and was determinedly not looking at them as they stared him down, instead directing his gaze straight into the opposite (currently unoccupied) communal cell (Wrench assumed it was where they put the women) right across from their own. He was probably wishing that he had been put in there instead.

Wrench had to admit (albeit begrudgingly), he was slightly impressed. Nygaard was keeping his cool, even with the two dangerous hitmen that had been sent to kill him occupying the same cell as him. It made Wrench wonder how somebody like tiny, baby Nygaard (**0.****1**) could have possibly offed Hess; Nygaard looked like the type of man who let men like Hess wipe their shit-covered boots all over him like a doormat and patiently waited for more. Of course, Nygaard could have simply hired someone to kill Hess, but who? Fargo (**0.2**) had a well-compiled list of loyal hitmen (such as Numbers and himself) from here all the way to Nebraska; how the hell would Nygaard have been able to hire someone without their knowing about it?

Wrench had spent about five minutes pondering this, sitting in a very uncomfortable silence (for Nygaard, that is), when the two women from the bar were led in. The first one was obviously the friend of the woman Wrench had been flirting with earlier. She was taller, with sleek, wavy brown hair that tumbled down perfectly to her shoulders and still managed to look sexy even though she was obviously drunk, stumbling her high-heeled death traps that some asshole had the audacity to name as proper boots. Not too far behind her was the woman that Wrench had been drinking with; she was clearly more intoxicated than Sexy (his observation of her as a lightweight had been spot on), and the officer who was escorting her to the empty communal cell had to keep a hand braced under her arm to keep her from falling.

Despite how attractive he himself had found her, Mr. Wrench would not call her beautiful. She was not built as voluptuously as Sexy; her tiny frame did not even come close to filling out her clothes (although this might have been partly due to the large blue hoodie and sweater she wore). Her hair, darker than Sexy's, was a tangled mess, almost all fallen out of the bun she had been wearing at the bar. Wrench could vaguely recall Sexy mercilessly tearing at her friend's hair while he had been beating the shit out of Numbers (and make no mistake, he had been _winning). _Women always seemed to go for the hair first, something he could never understand. Was it their equivalent to a kick in the balls? He let his gaze drift down a little bit and he liked what he saw. While she wasn't beautiful (cute was a better way to describe her and Numbers would've said even that was being generous), those tight jeans of hers showcased an amazing ass.

The cop that had been escorting Sexy unlocked the cell and ushered her in before he nodded at his partner and left. Cutie made to go in after her, but her cop turned her around to face him and started reaming her out. Wrench couldn't read lips from a distance like he could up close, but even he could tell that Cutie and the cop knew each other personally just by reading the expressions on their faces. Cutie looked both sullen and resigned, swaying dangerously on her feet, as if she was used to being screamed at in front of other people, and the cop looked so pissed that Wrench couldn't help but feel mildly concerned. Who was he? An ex-boyfriend? He looked angry enough to strike her.

Finally, the cop allowed Cutie into the cell, slammed the door shut and locked it before he decided to fuck off. Wrench watched Cutie stumble towards the bench (she hadn't even seemed to have noticed him or the other two men) and plop down. She folded up her overcoat, placed it at the edge of the bench as a pillow, and laid down on her back, letting her arm dangle over the bench. Sexy was deliberately sitting at the opposite end of the cell, leaning against the wall and scowling at the ceiling. This was going to be a problem.

He turned to Numbers and signed, _We can't do this here. _

Numbers signed back, _We have to. He said somebody else killed Hess and we need to know who. _

___We have potential witnesses here, _Wrench replied.

Numbers rolled his eyes in that infuriating way Wrench despised. ___They're drunk as skunks. They're not going to remember anything come morning. _

Another beating was beginning to sound appealing. Wrench's signing grew more furious as the anger he had felt back at the bar came rushing back. ___We gotta do this carefully. _

___We are, _was Number's reply. ___Those women are going to fall dead asleep in less than an hour and they're not going to hear or see a thing. Take a look and tell me if I'm wrong. _

Wrench did so reluctantly. Cutie looked like she was already asleep (not a surprise considering how much she had to drink), if the slow rise and fall of her chest was any indication. Sexy was also starting to nod off, though she was trying to force herself to stay awake.

___If they wake up- _Wrench started signing, but because Numbers had no goddamn respect for him, he was interrupted.

___We'll kill them. That simple, _was Mr. Number's reply.

Wrench nodded, trying to ignore the unease he felt. They had never killed a woman in their time together as partners, and Wrench had never killed a woman solo either, before they had met. He wasn't sure if Numbers had ever done so (you just don't ask about these sorts of things), but it wasn't something that Wrench wanted to contemplate.

He glanced over at Cutie again. He hoped he wouldn't be forced to kill her.

They waited, with Nygaard sitting between them, petrified, for probably about another thirty minutes or so (at one point Numbers was allowed to go make the phone call he had requested when they had been brought in). By this time, Sexy had fallen asleep despite her efforts and Wrench hadn't heard a peep out of Cutie since she had arrived. Numbers flicked his eyes at him, a look that said _stand by,_ and Wrench got up to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his legs and back, and strode over to the cell door. He glanced at the women again, just to be sure, and then at the cop who had been paid to not be as attentive as he ought to be. Seeing that everything was going to plan (that would hopefully not be interrupted by Cutie again this time around, Wrench turned around and leaned against the cell door casually, staring coolly at Lester.

This seemed to help Nygaard realize that shit was finally about to go down, prompting him to speak. He spoke, stalled, then spoke again. Numbers was listening to him with what looked like saint-like patience, but Wrench knew better. He could tell by the way Numbers had his hands clasped together in his lap that his partner was resisting the urge to outright beat the the information out of Nygaard.

In the middle of whatever excuses Nygaard was making, Numbers glanced over at him with a knowing look and Wrench immediately started pulling his right foot out of his boot, making sure he wasn't being too obvious about it. This was one of their cleverer tactics that he and Numbers had used several times before, all with delightfully gruesome results. After the third time, Wrench had been given the dubious honor of having his sock used to torture their targets because, as Mr. Numbers so eloquently put it, his feet (and therefore his socks) smelled worse "than a pig's asshole."

Wrench peeled off his sock and rolled it into a ball, stuck his foot back in his boot and waited. He couldn't help but feel excited, as sick as it was. This was one of his favorite methods of withdrawing information and he was damn good at it. Numbers glanced over at him again, telling him to be ready, and then started speaking to Nygaard. Wrench watched intensely; if he concentrated hard enough, he could read entire sentences purely by lips.

___"You said him," _Numbers said.

Nygaard stared at him. ___"What?" _

___"On the ice," _Numbers continued patiently, ___"You said him. You said it was him, not you. Him." _

Nygaard's eyes flitted this way and that, and he chuckled nervously. ___"Um, yeah," _Nygaard's tone was cautious, not agreeing or disagreeing. He glanced over at Wrench, as if desperate to look anywhere else but at Numbers, and his laugh came out as a dry gasp.

Wrench's stony stare forced him to look back at Numbers. If Number's stare was unnerving, Wrench's dead-eyed expression was downright terrifying (at least Wrench hoped so). ___"I'm just guessing here, but, uh, that Hess wasn't head-stabbed by a girl." _

Wrench stared hard at him. Who the ___fuck_ did Nygaard think he was talking to? One of his buddies at his shitty insurance office? An important contributor to Fargo was dead and Nygaard was ___mocking _him. Did nobody have any fucking respect any more?

Numbers just chuckled, as if Nygaard's little joke was amusing. ___"No, no, no," _Numbers smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Like Wrench, he didn't find Nygaard's comment funny either. ___"No, you said it like you had a face in mind." _

Nygaard shook his head. ___"Uh-uh."_

Numbers exhaled, as if in annoyance, then slowly looked over at Wrench. _Do it. _Wrench immediately strode over, not even bothering to hide the sadistic glee that must have been clear as crystal on his face, and Nygaard's head snapped toward him. ___"No, wait-" _

While Nygaard was distracted, Numbers slammed his palm down on Nygaard's injured hand. Wrench swiftly stifled the scream of pain that was released by grabbing the back of Nygaard's head and pressing the sock at Nygaard's open mouth, making sure to actually push some of the material into his mouth. He held it there, muffling Nygaard's screams, until Numbers motioned for him to stop.

Wrench stepped back while Numbers took Nygaard's head in his hands, saying, ___"Stay with me. Lester, stay with me." _

Nygaard moaned and looked as if he was about to puke. Wrench took another step back, just in case. He was very fond of his boots.

___"I need a name," _Numbers persisted before deciding to speak more slowly. ___"I need a name." _

Nygaard's head sagged, as if he were about to faint.

___"Again," _Numbers ordered, and Wrench began to swoop down upon his victim like a hawk, but Nygaard screamed, ___"Wait, wait! Please!" _

Wrench stopped in his tracks and slowly lowered his arm, frozen in mid-air. He couldn't help but feel smug. The sock always got them talking. Always.

Evidently, Nygaard was not talking fast enough and Numbers, having grown impatient, reached for his injured again. Nygaard ripped it away, repeatedly screaming something that Wrench couldn't interpret by lips.

Numbers leaned forward intently and Wrench watched his lips form the same word Nygaard had said. ___"Is that a first name?" _

Nygaard didn't answer and Numbers sighed. ___"Lester, eventually, you just swallow your tongue and you die like a fish." _

Nygaard said another name that Wrench couldn't interpret.

Numbers repeated it, then looked up at Wrench and signed, ___We got a name _(**0.****3**)._****__**  
**_

Wrench eyes Nygaard skeptically. It wasn't uncommon for their targets to give them false names or false information in a desperate attempt to pacify them. Of course, it never worked because he and Numbers would always go back and kill them for lying, but Wrench would be very surprised if Nygaard was telling the truth and not lying out of sheer desperation.

Numbers turns Nygaard's face towards him. ___"Where is he?" _

___"I'm gonna throw up," _Nygaard mumbles. Wrench once more took a step back.

___"No, no you're not," _Numbers tells him, patting him hard on the chest. ___"If you puke in here, I'll kill you. I mean, I'll actually kill you. Okay?" _

___"Okay," _Nygaard mumbles. His face is gray, his forehead covered in sweat, and he looks feverish. He's nodding off.

Numbers delivers a light slap to his face, turns and holds his chin so that Nygaard's looking at him. ___"Lester, I need more information. Now." _

___"He... He took my car. They called me, told me it was impounded. In Duluth. So he's probably..." _Nygaard drifts off briefly, shrugging. ___"I... I think they got a picture of him. A picture of him up here. Law enforcement had it. It's from a, what do you call it, an APB. So..." _

He drifts off again, and Wrench notices that his eyes are shutting and opening very fast. He's going to pass out soon. Numbers notices this as well, and forces Nygaard to look back at him.

___"What?" _Nygaard looks as if he's about to start crying (much to Wrench's disgust, he can't stand men crying).

Numbers repeats the name and Nygaard nods eagerly.

The buzzer to the entrance to the cells goes off (bail must have gone through), but Wrench continues watching Nygaard because he's speaking again.

___"He killed him. He killed Hess. I mean..." _

Numbers releases Nygaard's face just as the cop rounds the corner, thankfully not the one who had brought in Cutie (otherwise Wrench would have been tempted to kick the shit out of him for screaming at a woman the way he had), but a dull-looking, portly one. Wrench doesn't bother to read his lips as he unlocks the cell door.

Numbers stares at Nygaard intently. ___"What if we want to stay?" _

Wrench smirks at the look on Nygaard's face. If there was anything he admired the most about his partner (and there wasn't a whole lot), it was his mastery at mind-fucking people.

The cop must have said something because Numbers is speaking again. ___"I don't know, what if we like it here?" _

Nygaard's eyes dart between Numbers and Wrench, and Wrench makes sure to catch his eye in order to give him a sinister smile. He almost bursts out laughing when Nygaard seemed to shrink even further. It made him think of a turtle hiding within its shell.

___"Have no doubt, we know where to find you," _is the ominous warning Numbers gives him before he gets to his feet. He makes another casual comment aimed at Nygaard as they leave the cell, but Wrench doesn't catch it because he's in the middle of glancing at Cutie as he passes by her cell. She's still sleeping and so is Sexy.

His anger has mostly burnt itself out in their interrogation of Nygaard, so this leaves Wrench open to pondering how the evening would have gone if they hadn't been arrested. He probably would have gotten laid; it would have been nice to have gotten some action. It probably would have done wonders for his mood. Wrench spares one last glance at Cutie as he Numbers round the corner and an idea slowly, tentatively, takes form inside his mind. Maybe he would find her again. Before or after the job is done, maybe he would look Cutie up again and get some much-deserved, much-need sex. She obviously had found him attractive.

What could it hurt to have a little fun on the side for once?

* * *

___Absolutely ____not, _Numbers signs after Wrench tells him what he wants to do.

Wrench feels his temper flare up. They were back at Hess & Sons to inform Max Gold of their next move, and despite the fact that it was almost three in the morning, the man had agreed to meet with them. They hadn't left the car yet because Numbers was insisting on arguing with him, as fucking usual.

___Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? _Wrench signs at him, almost smacking his hand on the steering wheel because of his enraged signing.

___We've got business to take care of and you're the one arguing with me about fucking some scrawny bitch you met in a bar! _is Number's exasperated reply.

Out loud, Numbers snaps at him, ___"Jesus Christ, what's gotten into you?"_

___I haven't gotten a good lay in forever, that's what! _Wrench signs angrily.

___We've gotta drive all the way to Duluth to get that damn picture, _Numbers replies, just as angry. ___It's a four-hour drive! We don't got time for you to get your dick wet. _

___I haven't had the time to even jerk myself off,_ Wrench retorts. ___Besides, we need to get some sleep. I'm not driving for four hours straight without six hours of shut-eye minimum. _

___"You're a fucking drama queen," _Numbers snarls at him out loud.

___I'm getting laid whether you like it or not, _is Wrench's obstinate reply.

___Fine, I don't care. Do it,_ Numbers signs as he tears off his seatbelt. Wrench smirks and also unbuckles himself. It always felt good to win a fight.

Slamming the passenger door harder than was necessary, Number signs, _You can put a goddamn ring on it and make me your best man for all I care. Just do your part and don't get too distracted._

As if he needed to be talked to like he's a goddamn toddler. Wrench considers knocking Numbers on his ass, but decides against it. He doesn't want him to start making trouble about his getting laid again.

The pair meet Max Gold in the same large garage they had met him in the first time. Most of the lights were off, leaving parts of the room in complete darkness, and the sheer emptiness of the room was eerie. Not that it bothered Wrench or Numbers. It took a hell of a lot to scare them, and a dark room was far from it.

Gold was waiting by himself next to the stairs that led up to the main office. He started talking almost immediately as soon as he saw them, so fast that Wrench couldn't keep up and so didn't bother to read his lips.

Numbers started speaking as well and turns around every now and then to translate his and Gold's conversation. As Wrench is wondering how he's going to locate Cutie, an idea suddenly appears to him and he smacks Numbers on the shoulder to get his attention. He wants to tell him now before he forgets. Number turns to look at him, letting him see his annoyance.

___Ask him who I can go to if I wanted to look someone up here, in this town, _Wrench signs.

Numbers stares at for a minute before saying out loud, in an incredulous tone, ___"What?" _

Wrench repeats what he signed.

___You're not serious, _Numbers signs back.

_Ask him,_ Wrench replies, emphasizing his command in the hard, abrupt movements of his signing.

Number sighs in exasperation and turns back to Gold, who looks confused. He relays the question to Gold the question and Gold replies.

___One of the clerks at the post office was under Hess' payroll, _Numbers tells him. ___Apparently he has the dirt on everybody Hess knew: employees, co-workers, friends, enemies, lovers, all that jazz. For the right price, he'll give out the information that's you want and another price to forget your face. _

Wrench ponders it, wondering if a hefty bribe is worth a piece of ass. The look Numbers is giving him says ___hell no, _but Wrench doesn't take orders from his equals; he'll do what he damn well pleases. And fucking Cutie is what'll please him. He didn't want to have to wait for another woman to approach him, or vice-versa. What are the odds the guy will have any incriminating information on a small-town girl anyways?

___I want a description, _Wrench signs.

Numbers glares at him, but asks Gold for a description of the post office clerk and relays it back to Wrench. Five foot nine, dirty blond hair, about twenty years old.

___Can I finish my talk with him or do you have any more requests? _Numbers signs at him.

Wrench shoots him the finger for his lack of respect.

After Gold is informed of their plan to pick up the police photo and he promises to make a call to Duluth to get them an "appointment" with the right person to procure the aforementioned picture, Wrench has barely buckled himself in before Numbers decides to ride his ass again.

___What did I tell you about getting distracted? _He signs savagely.

___Mind your own damn business, _Wrench replies. _My sex life isn't going to affect the job.__  
_

___I'll fucking report you back to Fargo, _is Number's reply. ___Don't think I won't. _

___You do that and I'll kill you, _Wrench signs, staring Numbers straight in the eyes. ___I'll dump you in that hole in the lake and I'll tell Fargo I had to kill you because you turned snitch on me._

They stare each other down for a tense moment, hoping that the other will back down and turn his gaze away. It is Numbers that backs down, and Wrench smiles. He's the alpha male here and they both know it.

He pulls them out of the parking lot and onto the road. Five minutes in, Wrench is still annoyed so he purposely swerves the car with a sudden jerk of the steering wheel and the sudden movement makes Numbers smack his head on the window.

* * *

After two awful nights in that shitty iceshack on the lake, Wrench had pestered Numbers relentlessly until he finally cracked and rented a room at one of Bemidji's many dinky motels. It was shitty because Numbers is a cheap asshole despite the nice clothes he's so fond of wearing, but the beds are infinitely better than stretching out on a hard bench. It's a quarter after ten in the morning when they trek out for the post office. They decide to walk because their motel isn't too far away from the center of town, where most of the general buildings, including the post office, are located.

___You're paying for this out of your own pocket,_ Numbers signs at him. He's still in a pissy mood from Wrench's smacking his head on the car window and that the motel served shitty coffee that had burned the roof of his mouth.

___You didn't have to come, _Wrench signs back. He didn't want Numbers coming along with him in the first place. Knowing his partner, Numbers will do anything in his power to make his errand more difficult than it has to be.

___If you weren't so hell-bent on fucking this chick, I wouldn't have to follow you around like a babysitter, _Numbers replies.

___Maybe YOU should try getting laid while we're still here, _Wrench signs back with a smirk. ___It might help your mood._

___I've seen what the women look like here. I'd rather stick my dick in a pig, _Numbers signs. ___I seriously don't get what you see in this chick. She has no sex appeal whatsoever. _

___Says you,_ Wrench replies. ___I know a good fuck when I see it. _

They arrive at the small post office to find the clerk that Gold had described manning the desk. Wrench locks the door behind them and lowers the blinds on the windows. He scans the room for security cameras and is satisfied when he doesn't find any. God bless hick towns and their cutbacks.

The clerk is eyeing them cautiously, but his posture remains casual, as if they were normal customers and not hitmen. He speaks slowly enough that Wrench is able to read his lips. ___"What can I do for you fellas?" _

___"A little birdie told us that you can give us certain information," _Numbers says.

___"Depends on what you want to know,"_ the clerk replies. ___"It comes with a price though." _

___"How much?" _Numbers asks.

The clerk shrugs. ___"Depends on who you're looking up." _His gaze sharpens. ___"Who do you want information on?" _

Numbers looks at Wrench. ___I never got her name,_ Wrench signs.

Numbers closes his eyes, as if he's trying his hardest not to explode and inhales deeply. Without opening his eyes, he signs, ___Do you at least got a description of her? _

___She's white, is about five foot one or two, no taller than that,_ Wrench signs. ___She's got really dark brown hair, light gray eyes, and a little scar. A scar that splits her left eyebrow in half._ When Cutie had first bumped into him, the scar was the first thing he had noticed. It looked like someone had gone at her with a knife. Wrench had wanted to ask her about it, but when you're trying to get laid, you don't ask people about their scars unless they brought it up first.

Numbers translates his description to the clerk. The clerk takes a few minutes to think before he finally says, ___"I think I gotta person who matches that description. Let me go get her file from the back."_

He disappears into the back room, leaving Wrench to wonder how Cutie ended up in a file among Hess' enemies and friends. He grimaced; he hoped she didn't fall under the "lovers" category. He really didn't want to screw someone who had been with Hess; the man had been well-known in Fargo for his endless numbers of paramours. Wrench would rather not catch something nasty from one of his leftovers.

Numbers must have been wondering the same thing because he signs to Wrench, ___Think it might be worth asking her about Hess? _

Wrench shrugs. Honestly, he just wanted to sleep with her and that was it. He doubted she had any crucial information on Hess that would help them find the man Nygaard described, but whatever. People liked to yak after they had a good tumble underneath the sheets, or so Numbers had told him. Wrench wouldn't know.

The clerk appeared behind the desk, holding a manila file folder.

___"How much for it?" _Numbers asked, jerking his chin at the folder.

___"200." _

Wrench and Numbers stared at him incredulously. The clerk gazed back at them coolly. He had the balls to add, ___"And 150 to forget I saw you."_

Fuck. Wrench would have to go stop by an ATM. He hated doing this because it left a potential trail for cops to trace, a sort of vulnerability that he despised.

Wrench turned to look at his partner and was surprised when he saw that Numbers had pulled out his wallet, looking pissed. ___I got the 150 to cover the bribe, _the dark-haired man signed. ___You got the money to buy the information? _

Wrench nodded and then signed, ___Why are you now deciding to pay? _

___This chick must have had something to do with Hess to be worth this much,_ Numbers signed back. ___And it most likely wasn't because she was fucking him._

While Numbers and Wrench were counting out the money, the clerk was holding out his hand imperiously. At one point he got impatient and started wriggling his fingers until Wrench was ready to punch him.

___"I will slice your fingers off and feed them to you if you don't stop that,"_ Numbers threatens.

The clerk blanches, finally dropping his cool exterior, and withdraws his hand timidly.

___"Give us the folder first and then we'll pay you," _Numbers orders.

The clerk passes the folder over and Wrench flips it open. The first page is basic information, with a picture clipped to the front. It's Cutie alright, but it doesn't look like something that was taken professionally. In fact, it looked as if someone had been standing from a distance and took a snapshot of her when she wasn't aware, which she obviously wasn't; she's frozen in mid-step, squinting in the sunlight. She's leaving what looks like to be a bookstore, if the window display is anything to go by.

His gaze drops from the picture to the page itself. Her name was Lia Francesca Smith, she was twenty-five years old (just six years younger than him), her best friend's name was Judith Price (this had to be Sexy) and her blood type was A positive. She was a graduate of Bemidji High School (Class of 1999) her older brother was a cop (that must have been the one that had arrested her), and she had attended college for awhile, but she had dropped out four years ago and had been working in retail ever since. Wrench's gaze zeroed in on her home address and, more specifically, on her workplace: Watson's Books. A woman after his own heart. He knew there had to be a bookstore somewhere in this shitty little town.

Wrench smirks. Now he knows where to find her.

Numbers punches him in the shoulder and signs, ___If you're done ogling her picture, could we see what the rest of the file has to say about her?_

Wrench flips to the next page, and reads it. Then reads it again. And again. What the hell? He flips the page over and there's another picture clipped to the back of the page. Evidence of what is printed down in the file.

Numbers notices the expression on his face and snatches the file away from him. Wrench is still so surprised that he doesn't even get angry. He watches Numbers read the page, and the series of changes his stoic expression goes through: surprise, incredulity, shock.

Numbers looks up and gapes at him as if Wrench had an explanation, but Wrench shook his head ___no, he most certainly didn't have an explanation for this mindfuckery._

___"An ordinary bookstore clerk, huh?"_ Numbers muses to himself. ___"Who would have thought?"_

They are rudely interrupted by the clerk who demands, ___"Are you going to pay or not? This isn't a library." _

Numbers smiles at him condescendingly. ___"You're a ballsy little shit, I'll give you that."_ He turns to sign at Wrench, ___Give the man his money. _

Wrench steps toward the counter and leans down, staring into the clerk's eyes. The clerk shrinks underneath his icy stare. Wrench drops the money on the counter. He signs, even though the clerk doesn't understand, ___You tell anyone about this, you're dead. _

Numbers cheerfully translates this message, and the clerk turns even whiter than he already was. Numbers slaps the bribe money on the counter and the clerk flinches. Wrench unlocks the door and heads back outside, folder tucked under his arm. Numbers is not far behind.

He signs to him, ___What are you going to do now? _

Wrench smiles and replies, ___I'm going to pay her a visit. _

Numbers smirks at him. ___For business or for pleasure?_

Wrench shrugs. ___Why not both? I've got the time to fuck her ten times over and then some._

* * *

_Today's Tom Sawyer_

_He gets high on you _

_And the space he invades_

_He gets by on you _

* * *

**A/N:**

_0.1._ In episode 3, Mr. Wrench calls Lester "tiny" and "baby-like." I found the translation on the Fargo subreddit on Reddit, along with the translation of his conversation with Numbers in episode 2. :)

_0.2. _Meaning the syndicate itself, not just the town Wrench and Numbers are from. Molly mentioned it in episode 1.

_0.3. _In episode 5, Numbers signs something to Wrench after Lester gives up Malvo's name. This is just my guess at what he says to him.

1.) You'll notice I had to add a few new warnings in the trigger paragraph: torture and misogyny.

2.) More nicknames as well. It just happened, I swear. xDD

3.) By the way, **please please **do not reveal the events that occurred in the latest episode (number 6) if you review because I am currently out of town and I'm waiting for it to be posted online so I can watch it. Thanks! :)


	3. Louder than Sirens, Louder than Bells

This story can also be found on Archive of Our Own under the same penname. The version there will be more explicit in way of sexual content.

**Fuck it, this no longer applies.**

* * *

**Disclaimer: **

1.) 'Fargo' belongs to Ethan and Joel Coen.

2.) The title of the story can be found in Anna Akhmatova's poem, 'You Will Hear Thunder.'

3.) 'Drumming Song' belongs to Florence + The Machine.

* * *

**A/N:**

1.) So... I'm still reeling from episode 6. Damn you, Lorne Malvo, damn you. ;.; But on the other hand: Fargo tomorrow night! :DD

2.) This chapter takes place during the same episode (#5) as the last chapter; it continues where the last one left off basically. I hope this doesn't confuse anybody. xDD

3.) **IMPORTANT: **This chapter originally contained a sex scene that I removed in order to post on this site... but I said "Fuck it," because I couldn't find a good way to cut out the smut so I'm leaving it in. I hope you all enjoy it, it's the first sex scene I've ever written, so please go easy on me. xDDD

* * *

**Trigger(s) for this story: **Language-including ableist and sexist language, sexual content, slut-shaming, violence, misogyny, and torture.

* * *

**Chapter Three **

_Louder than sirens_

_Louder than bells_

_Sweeter than heaven_

_And hotter than hell _

* * *

Lia woke up to the godawful clanging sound of the cell door being unlocked and was then subjected to the even more agonizing screech of the door being slid open. It was as if somebody was repeatedly running their nails down on a chalkboard inside her head. Somehow, she managed to sit up, her body feeling heavy and cumbersome in a way like she had been wading through a lake, but the crippling hangover that was happily hammering inside her head threatened to knock her back on her ass. Gleefully, the nausea that she had felt from the night before comes rushing back with a vengeance and Lia has no time to even think about making a run for the toilet inside the cell; she just instinctively leans over the bench and vomits on the floor. She retches for what feels like an eternity, the vomit flowing like an unforgiving fountain, her stomach pumping up what feels like gallons of booze.

"Aw, jeez, Lia. You don't look so good."

Recognizing the voice, Lia looks up to see Molly Solverson hovering in the doorway of the cell, looking both concerned and grossed out. Lia doesn't blame her. The smell of vomit and booze now permeates the small cell, and Lia wonders how she must look to her: her black eye and the bruise on her jaw, her hair rumpled around her face like a ghost girl from some Japanese movie, the stench of bar wafting from her clothes, vomit dribbling from her mouth and over her chin.

"You look like shit," Judith adds helpfully from the other end of the cell. Lia glances over at her; she had forgotten about her best friend. Of course, Judy managed attractive even now, a night spent in a jail cell: her hair is still sleek and silky-looking, her clothes aren't all wrinkled to hell, and only the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingers around her, but it gives her a mysterious, alluring aura. It probably helps that she doesn't have vomit dribbling down her chin. Lia wipes at her chin and mouth discretely. Her throat feels dry and her breath smells sour.

"I thought I should let you ladies know that the bar decided not to pursue charges," Molly tells them, oblivious to the tension brewing between them, "and that you're both free to go."

Judy rises to her feet swiftly and gracefully (though she does wince a little bit at the movement) and smooths down her clothes with a practiced sweep of her hands that Lia had always envied and could never emulate. She shoots Lia a withering look. "We're lucky we don't have work today otherwise we might have been fired."

Her combative tone immediately puts Lia on edge. "You work at a fucking strip club," she tells her, not bothering to mask either her anger or her disdain. "You're not in danger of being fired."

Molly suddenly senses the danger and warns them in her best cop voice, "Ladies, enough."

Judy sniffs and, with a toss of her head, flounces out, not bothering to wait for her. Lia has no doubt that she is going to go straight home and proceed to give her the cold shoulder for the rest of the week. Judy is the queen of holding grudges; Lia has often told people that if such a contest was ever held in Bemidji, Judy would win first-place and go straight onto nationals. Most people who knew Judy agreed with her assessment.

Lia pulls herself to her feet, trying not to step into the puddle of vomit and failing, and is nearly downed by the bout of vertigo that instantly assails her. Molly's hand on her shoulder steadies her, and Lia is grateful that it is her, and not her brother, that is the one releasing her from the drunk tank. Between Judy and the hangover, Lia has enough on her hands without her brother's lectures to add to it.

"Would you like a ride home?" Molly's voice is kind, and the unlimited well that seems to gush unending compassion makes Lia feel like shit. "Judy's car got towed after you two were arrested and she's going to have to go down and pick it up."

Lia has to force herself not to smirk. Judy's going to be at her mercy for at least a week considering she's going to need rides to work to make the money to pick up her car. For everything else, she can hoof her ass in the snow and cold.

"That would be great," Lia tells Molly gratefully. As Molly allows her to step out of the cell, Lia is surprised to notice that Lester Nygaard, of all people, is passed out in the men's drunk tank.

She is so surprised that she can't help but ask, "What the heck is Mr. Nygaard doing here?" She's not a formal person by nature, but the manners her parents had drummed into her about addressing her elders correctly had always stuck with her.

Molly glances at Lester as she closes the cell door and Lia notices her expression darken slightly. "He was brought in for punching an officer. They thought he was drunk, so they decided to let him sleep it off instead of pressing charges."

Lia can't help but laugh, despite that it amplifies the pain inside her head. It is a testament to her lingering tipsy state that she inadvertently blurts out, "Mr. Nygaard? Punching a cop of all people? Sam Hess ran him straight into a store window in public and he just took it."

Molly's eyes suddenly sharpen with attention. "Tell me about it on the way to your place, if you wouldn't mind."

Lia blanches. _Shit. I was thinking out loud again. _

* * *

Ten minutes later, they are parked in front of the apartment complex where Lia and Judy live. Molly looks unusually serious and Lia wonders, with some unease, why she wanted to know so much about the brief confrontation between Lester Nygaard and Sam Hess. She's still cursing herself for opening her big mouth.

There had been no way of getting around it. As they had pulled out of the parking lot, Lia told Molly what she saw, despite her reluctance (which was hopefully not too obvious).

"I was heading back to the store after my lunch break," Lia had said in as light as a voice as possible, "and I happened to see Hess and his boys-you know the ones, the twins-talking to Mr. Nygaard in front of the appliance store. I was about to turn the corner when I saw Hess make this fake lunge at him-you know, to psych him out-and poor Mr. Nygaard ran straight into the store window. Bounced right off it like a tennis ball."

They were silent as they had pulled up to a red light. When the light turns green, Molly speaks. "And you didn't say anything." There is nothing in her voice that indicates suspicion or disapproval. In fact, it's so casual that Lia feels her hackles raise up.

"I went to go help Mr. Nygaard up," she had replied with a surprisingly even voice. "I thought he had knocked himself out, with the way he had bounced off that window."

"But you didn't say anything to Hess. Or tell the police."

"No. Hess was gone by the time I reached Mr. Nygaard and he didn't want to press charges, even though I had begged him to." Okay, so that was somewhat of a lie. In fact, Mr. Nygaard hadn't wanted to press charges, but Lia hadn't encouraged him to like she had said; in fact, she would've done the opposite if Mr. Nygaard had been considering it, if only for his own safety.

It wasn't just the fact that Sam Hess had cut an impressive, fearsome figure at six foot six with the body of a pro-wrestler; it wasn't even because he had held great clout within that crime-ring outside of Fargo. No, what had scared Lia was Sam's utter ruthlessness in dealing with the people who crossed him. Lia herself once had the unpleasant experience of watching him personally "take care" of some poor asshole who had thought he could pull one over Hess and get off scott free. Nobody fucked with Sam Hess and got away with it. Even though Molly was one of the few cops she genuinely liked, Lia would not snitch on anybody, especially Hess.

As they had pulled up to her apartment building, Lia had asked, "Molly, if you weren't a cop and you had seen what Hess had done to Mr. Nygaard, would you have gone up to him and told him off?"

Her silence told Lia all she needed to know. Even the cops who weren't crooked had tiptoed around Hess. They knew he was someone to be feared. That's the way it had always been; you could admire giants for the heights they reach, or you envy them the way they can see above the clouds, and (this is not an "or") you fear them for the possibility of being crushed beneath their feet. But there was no better reminder of one's mortality than when giants fell. Giants lived like gods, but when they fell, they fell hard. The aftershocks can be felt for days afterward. Hess had been such a presence that before he had been murdered, Lia wouldn't have been able to imagine how Bemidji would go on without him. But go on Bemidji did, and Lia's sure that something has to give. In blood, that is.

Parked in front of her apartment building, and both women lost in their own thoughts, Lia hopes that Molly won't ask her about Judy. Judy had provided certain "services" for Hess several times at the strip club and had gotten paid well for it. While most of the strippers had formed a strong, fierce solidarity that few dared to breech, Lia knew that several of them had been jealous of Judy's extra earnings and Lia wouldn't be surprised if some co-worker "accidentally" let slip of Judy's activities with Hess. The last thing either of them needed was to be interviewed by the police. If Sam's death had been an ordered hit by a rival syndicate, it was best to distance themselves as much as possible, or so Gold had told her during their last phone call not too long ago.

But thankfully, Molly doesn't know of any of this so she just says, "Well, thanks for the information. It helps."

Lia feels a chill run down her spine, ice-cold fear replacing the blood in her veins. "Helps what, exactly?"

"A theory that I have. Classified," Molly adds sternly, just as Lia opens her mouth. She shuts it quickly, feeling her face flush. "Sorry," Molly says more gently. "I appreciate you cooperating with me."

Lia plasters a smile on her face to prevent her panic from showing. "Always," she lies, stretching her smile until it makes her face ache.

They say their goodbyes and the wind immediately whips her face as Lia opens the passenger door and steps out into the cold. Molly is nice enough to wait as Lia struggles through the snow and the sleet that transforms the usually short trek across the courtyard into a perilous journey, cursing and skidding, and finally pulls away from the curb when Lia makes it to relative the safety of the main doors.

Lia watches the police cruiser slowly make its way down the street, her insides feeling like a pinball machine gone haywire with the amount of panic that was dominating her thoughts. When Molly turns the corner, Lia is suddenly reminded of something that had seemed so crucial the night before, but was now completely insignificant. Regardless, she allows herself the distraction: she hadn't seen Ian and his dickhead friend since the fight at the bar; she hadn't even seen them in the drunk tank with Mr. Nygaard. They must have gotten bail.

As Lia presses the button the intercom for her and Judy's apartment (she fucking forgot her key when they had left for the bar), she wonders if she's ever going to see Ian around again. Most likely not. He looked like an out-of-towner, most likely passing through Bemidji to get to somewhere else, an actual destination that didn't have to claim the distinction of being "a town that people are most likely to pass through than live in." Lia feels a brief, vague pang of regret, but she pushes it away; she has more important things to worry about.

Lia buzzes her apartment again. Fucking Judy. It's cold as hell and she knows Judy is here; she had seen her rope some poor sucker at the police station into giving her a ride when Lia and Molly had walked into the parking lot.

After almost ten more minutes of constantly buzzing and cursing, one of the front desk attendants (who had seen her on the security cameras) had taken pity on her and unlocked the main doors for her.

"Thanks," Lia mutters as she sweeps past her towards the stairs (the elevators haven't worked in fucking forever). As luck would have it, Lia and Judy lived on the sixth floor, so Lia always got a good day's exercise in just by climbing the stairs day in and day out.

Thankfully, the door isn't locked so Lia gets her moment of throwing it open dramatically and storming in, snarling, "Do you know how fucking cold it is out there?"

Judy, planted comfortably on the couch with cup of hot chocolate (likely laced with something alcoholic, despite the hangover), a trashy magazine, and Lia's favorite ruby-colored blanket throw, sends her the kind of sweet smile that secretly promises poison in her food.

"Consider it payback for almost breaking my nose," is her reply and Lia takes in her appearance. She has obviously had a shower and changed into a fresh sweater and jeans. She smells of soap and some thick perfume that makes Lia's nose crinkle. Indeed, her perfect nose is swollen and red, and there's a dark bruise on her jaw. Lia imagines she doesn't look much better, with her black eye and her own bruise on her jaw.

"Fine. I'm sorry," Lia has to force a half-assed genuine tone of apology in her voice. "I'll pick up some aspirin when I go out."

"And you'll be giving me rides to work," Judy adds smugly.

"That too," Lia agrees.

"Buy me vodka and we'll be good," Judy throws in, smiling. "And I don't mean that Smirnoff crap you drink. I want Grey Goose."

"Jesus, Jude, we just got released for being drunk and disorderly," Lia says with exasperation.

"You owe me." Her voice brooks no arguments.

Lia rolls her eyes. "Fine. Let me take a nap and I'll go out and pick up your shit. I got errands to run anyway."

As she turns to head towards the shower, Judy calls out tp her, "Gold called."

Lia stops in her tracks and whirls around to face Judy. There goes the pinball machine in her stomach again, hay-wiring. "What did he say?"

"I missed the call, but he left a message. He wants you to call him back so you can arrange a time for your meeting."

Shit. She had forgotten about that. "Alright, I'll call him when I get back." Anything to delay it for as long as she possibly could.

"I thought you were through with this shit, Lia," Judy says in a disapproving tone.

"I am," Lia says defensively. At least she thinks she is. Fuck. This meeting had better be about tying up loose ends and not about Gold wanting her to get involved in some other bullshit.

"Then why are you meeting with Gold again?"

"We just want to clarify where we stand," Lia tells her.

Judy cocks an eyebrow. "And do you know where you stand?"

"Of course!"

"And Gold?" Judy's voice is skeptical.

"He knows where I stand."

At that, Judy drops the subject and Lia makes her escape to the shower. But as she's standing under the lukewarm water, Lia knows that Judy doesn't believe her because Lia herself doesn't believe it.

* * *

After Lia has showered and brushed her teeth, she takes a much-needed nap. She wakes up around eleven-thirty (she had been released at seven forty-five), and the worst of her hangover has passed. Where it had been loud drumming before, it was now reduced to a low rumbling, like distant thunder. After she's dressed and eaten, she proceeds to make a list of things she needs to pick up and errands she needs to run. The weather's shitty, she has a hangover, and she has more crap to do than she can count. Lia sighs. Nothing to be done but to actually do it. She shoots an envious glare at Judy, still all warm and cozy on the couch, as she pulls on her coat.

She decides to stop by the pharmacy first, to pick up aspirin for her and Judy's hangovers and ointment for their bruises (she already put ice on her eye) and her beat up knuckles. The cashier stares at her, taking in the results of her fight with Judy.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she says testily as she swipes her bag of purchases out of his hand. Before the day is out, Lia's going to be getting a phone call from her mother. That she damn well knows.

Her next stop is at the gas station to fill up her car. After she's parked, Lia heads inside to pay (she prefers to use cash), enduring the worsening weather. The small building is almost completely empty of people; the clerk is nowhere to be found and the only other customer is a dark-haired man perusing the chips. Lia walks over to the counter, barely glancing at him.

After a few of minutes, Lia hears footsteps approaching behind her. Turning around after feeling eyes linger on the back of her head, she feels an unpleasant jolt of surprise when she realizes that the man standing before her, wearing a friendly smile, is Ian's dark-haired friend from the bar.

"I was wondering if I'd see you around again," he says in a pleasant voice. "My friend really enjoyed your company last night."

Lia doesn't reply. Now that she's completely sober, she can easily interpret that the unease she is feeling is completely legitimate. Her gut tells her that it doesn't like the look of this asshole, and she's always trusted her gut on these matters.

He seems to pick up on her coldness, and he gives a little chuckle as if he totally understands. "I think we got off on the wrong foot," he says amiably. "I had a little too much to drink last night. My name's Eric."

He holds out a gloved hand for her to shake and Lia eyes it like it's a snake. This guy has a complete creep vibe. When she was drunk, she had just thought he was an asshole. Now that she was seeing clearly, how would Ian appear to her if she saw him next? She looks around tentatively, but she doesn't see him anywhere. His friend is by himself.

She takes his hand cautiously, gives it a little shake. "Lia," she replies tersely.

His smile grows wider, but he doesn't release her hand. In fact, his grip tightens.

Where is that goddamn cashier? Lia makes a subtle attempt to pull her hand away, but his grip doesn't waver. Without warning, Eric suddenly reels her in close, so quickly that Lia is too startled to scream. He's a lean, slight man, so his sudden show of strength surprises her. He leans his face towards hers and whispers so quietly that Lia has to strain her ears to hear him.

"I want you to tell me about Hess."

"Excuse me?" Lia is thankful that her voice doesn't waver. Fear is a sure sign of guilt.

"Hess. Sam Hess." His voice is still friendly, but his eyes aren't. They tell her of what he's capable of, windows to the soul. And his windows are dark.

"I didn't know Sam Hess." Oh god, he can't possibly know about her connection to Hess. How could he? Nobody knows but Judy and Gold.

"As a fair warning, sweetheart, I'd advise you not to lie to me." His face is so close now that if she tilted her head away, his facial hair would brush against her skin. "It won't end well for you, and it'll just end up being another chore for me to deal with."

"I don't-"

"Can I help you folks?"

Lia jumps and she feels Eric release her hand and step away from her. The cashier was now standing behind the counter, regarding them with naked curiosity. Lia flounces up to the counter, fear making her snarl, "Took you long enough, asshole."

The teenager cowers under her glare and Lia all but tosses her money at him. She doesn't bother to wait for him to finish counting her money before she bangs her way out. She just wants to put as much distance between her and Eric as quickly as possible.

Her hands shaking, Lia starts filling up her car, staring at the numbers on the tiny screen, willing them to go up faster. At one point, she looks up and feels her heart jump up in her throat when she notices that Eric is standing outside the doors, hands tucked in his coat pockets, watching her. Lia looks around wildly. If he's here, does that mean Ian is watching her as well?

The telltale click of the gas pump shutting off the flow of the gas makes her want to sob in relief. Lia throws herself in her car and drops her keys twice before she manages to stick them in the ignition, her hands are shaking so bad. She peels out of the gas station so fast that she skids on the ice and nearly wipes out. She ignores the chorus of angry honks that rise up behind her and barely makes the first light in her eagerness to get away.

Lia doesn't look behind her, but she has his image etched in her mind: a figure in dressed in black, watching her, like a crow that perches outside on your windowsill at night, watching you sleep. And from what she heard about crows is that they never forget a face.

* * *

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ That asshole can't possibly know about her connection to Hess. Unless... Lia grits her teeth. She was going to_ kill _Donnie, that little shit. She has a baseball bat in the trunk of her car with his name written all over it. She'd be paying him a visit at the post office today.

But not until she picked up her paycheck.

Savage, violent thoughts of delivering Donnie a good beating comfort her. By the time she pulls into the parking lot of Watson's Books, Lia has mostly calmed down. She's still pissed and she's still freaked out, but now she's able to restrain it. Donnie's a fucking idiot and Sam was wrong to trust him with him with all of his intel. But what's done is done, and there's no getting around it. That Eric guy didn't look like a detective at least; then she would have been well and truly fucked. Still, his presence does not bode well for her.

As soon as she steps through the door, Anna Harris, one of the high school part-timers, gets up right in her face almost immediately. Her face is set into an expression of total panic, which doesn't surprise Lia one bit, as whenever she sees Anna, she always looks like she's on the brink of tears.

"Lia could you please close the store while I got out for lunch? Just for an hour? I forgot to pack a pack a lunch and you know how Mrs. Watson is, she doesn't want the store empty when it's closed for lunch-"

Lia interrupts her with a sigh. "I just stopped to pick up my paycheck, Anna. I got other stuff to do."

"Please Lia! You're the only one I can ask!" Anna pleads. "Nobody's as dependable as you are!"

Well. That's certainty gratifying, and true as well. She_ is_ the most dependable employee Mrs. Watson's got. Lia thinks for a moment and almost immediately makes a decision. Donnie's ass-kicking could wait for an hour.

"Fine," Lia says. "I'll close the store. But if you're not back in _exactly_ an hour, I'm leaving."

Anna pulls her into a crushing hug before bouncing out the door. "Thanks Lia! You're the best!"

"Yeah, I know I am," Lia grumbles to herself before she locks the door behind the teenager and flips over the sign that says "Closed for Lunch" with the little clock whose hands are arranged to indicate the time they reopen. At least Anna was considerate enough to chase away the customers first so she wouldn't have to do a sweep of the store.

Watson's Books is tiny, but it's all Bemidji's got in the procurement of literature and Lia is fiercely protective of it, even more so with the recent arrival of the Barnes & Noble in Duluth. The store's too small to set up fancy displays all over the floor (like B&N does), but one of the two window displays is solely reserved for interchangeable posters that proclaim new arrivals, bestsellers that have been discounted, books that can be pre-ordered before their release, and the like. Inside, bookshelves line the walls all the way to the back, leaving only enough space to walk from section to section. There is no extra space for chairs. The register is positioned in the center of the store splitting fiction from non-fiction, with fiction being located in the front and non-fiction being located in the back. They don't sell any stupid little trinkets or similar bullshit (also like B&N) so there's not too much worry about shoplifting, despite the lack of cameras and security door systems.

Tossing her coat, gloves and purse on the register counter, Lia ambles around in Fiction & Literature for something to read. She's not in the mood for any serious, so she ends up in the Romance section and selects a book titled "Street Filthy Boy" (**0.1**) and makes her way to the break room. There's a comfortable armchair in there that she likes to use when she's on her break. Lia finds herself whistling as she opens the door. Reading always puts her in a better mood, especially when it's something light-hearted and trashy. Something fun to read before she introduces Donnie's face to her Doc Martins-

Lia freezes just as she steps inside the break room, a room so tiny that you would only be able to take twelve steps if it weren't for the armchair and the foldout table. Her book slips from her hand and falls to the tiled floor with an audible thunk. He's sitting in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, casually reading as if he hadn't a care in the world. Him. The redhead in the bar. Ian. What the fuck is he doing here? Anna was supposed to clear the store!

Lia doesn't know how long she stands there gaping at him, but eventually he looks up, sees her, and gives her a crooked smile. He closes his book with a snap. Her eyes, not of their own accord, drift to the cover of the book. A blue, blue sky, with gray-white clouds. In Cold Blood (**0.2**), by Truman Capote. This by itself, just recognizing the book he's reading, feels as if someone's dumped a bowl of ice down the back of her shirt. Danger, danger: the word pulses weakly in the dark, primal corners of her mind, flickering like a neon sign in desperate need of repair.

As Ian slowly pulls himself to his feet, a film starts to play before Lia's eyes. She watches herself turning on her heels, making a run for it. She hears heavy boots thundering behind her, his longer legs allowing him to catch up to her easily, his large hand reaching for her arm. Him pulling her back into the break room. The door closing with an ominous click.

Lia shudders. She won't be able to outrun him. Even if she could, he would just find her again. Him and his friend.

He takes three steps over to her and stops, standing so close to her that the tassels on his coat brush her chest, his arms hanging by his sides, hands loosely open. He is not just tall (she would guess he stands at six foot two or six foot three), but big as well: broad shoulders, big hands. Sam Hess was bigger, but Lia just realizes that she had never felt as scared around him as she does this man. And she knows why: the absence of emotions in his eyes, the utter emptiness of expression on his face. Lia thinks of walking down an unlit road in the middle of the night; she imagines standing over a lake that has frozen over long ago and doesn't melt even during the summer. This is what she sees when she looks at him.

Everything about him is hard and unyielding. At the bar, Lia had only noticed the sensual mystery that had lingered about him; how alluring it had been! But it had been a facade, an illusion of her own drunken devising. Now that the illusion has been stripped away, he's frightening.

Lia tries to speak, but nothing comes out. She swallows. Her mouth is dry. She feels a bead of sweat trickle down the back of her neck. He's waiting for her to speak, she can tell. He has this infuriating little smirk on his face that does nothing to melt the ice in his eyes; her hands curl into fists, small and non-threatening. Lia wishes she had brought her set of brass knuckles with her; Judy's always nagging her to carry them with her.

She wants to hit Ian, but she still wants to fuck him as well; that desire hadn't gone away. She wants to run her hands through his curly hair. She wants to kiss the hollow of his throat. She wants to press her body against his. Arousal and anger are fusing together, creating a dangerous combination that Lia hasn't felt for anyone else. Anger is hollow on its own and desire by itself is only a brief flicker of flame. Together, she feels both hot and full. She wonders, if he touches her, will he catch fire?

Lia flinches when he raises an arm, but he merely reaches out and draws a finger down the scar that slashes her eyebrow. It's more of a brush than a full-on touch, like a light breeze passing through. Her breathing hitches and his stare has grown darker, water swarming under ice, so Lia has to force herself to step back, put some distance between them. Out of his proximity, no longer held within his gravitational pull, Lia can breathe clearly again, no longer inhaling smoke from the fire he has started in her. She manages to say in a robotic polite voice, "I'm sorry sir, but you're not allowed back here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He cocks an eyebrow at her as if to say, _Oh really? _Lia suddenly gets the nasty impression that he can read lips.

He doesn't move, just stares down at her with a challenging look.

Lia has just about had enough bullshit for one day. In a harder voice, she says, "Sir, you really need to leave."

For a moment, he just continues staring at her. Then slowly, so slowly that Lia is sure he's doing it on purposely, he drops to his knees to retrieve the book she had dropped. He keeps his eyes on hers the whole time when he straightens up. He looks at the cover briefly before flipping it over to read the summary on the back. His face twists into an expression of disbelief and he looks back at her, a frighteningly genuine smile of amusement gracing his handsome face. He then tosses it aside with disdain and picks up the book he had been reading. He points at her and taps his fingers on the book and looks at her questioningly.

Lia shakes her head. This whole situation was getting ridiculous. "I haven't read it."

He stares at her incredulously, then wags his finger at her as if to say, _For shame._

He's lucky he's so damn good-looking, that's the only thing besides the fear that's keeping her from pulling out her phone and calling the cops. Wait, her phone's in her purse. Her purse is on the register counter. Shit.

He tosses his book back on the armchair and then reaches into his jacket. For one heart-stopping moment, Lia is sure he's going to pull a gun out on her. Instead, he pulls out a small notepad and pencil and scribbles something down before he holds it up to her. Lia is forced to step closer in order to read it (she is sure this was his intention).

_You need to read more literature._ Lia can feel her temper flare up again. Now he's going sass her through writing?

"And you really need to leave, _Ian_," is her reply. Lia refuses to indulge him in his little twisted flirting routine, now that she knows his friend is aware of her connection to Hess. It's all just a ruse.

He smiles again, seemingly amused by her sass. He flips the page over and starts writing again. Lia closes her eyes, willing herself to rein in her temper before she does something that will end up with her corpse being thrown in a dumpster. His tapping her on the shoulder makes her jump; she opens her eyes and realizes that he's showing her his response.

_I don't think you want me to leave. _

Fuck it, she's not going to play this stupid game. Lia temporarily forgets her fear of him and finds herself stepping closer to him and jabbing her finger in his chest, saying, "You are either going to leave quietly or I'm going to call the cops."

Unsurprisingly, that stupid smirk on his face grows wider at the hollow threat. He has a knowing look on his face that frightens her. He reaches up and takes her hand, the one that's still poking him, in his own. The skin-on-skin contact shocks her with a sudden bolt of arousal that almost brings her down to her knees. His hand swallows hers in the cage of his fingers, chains wrapped her fingers. Everything about him is large and dominating; his sheer presence seems to make the room shrink around them until Lia feels like she's standing in a closet. He is fire and ice all at once; he burns and freezes at the same time, and Lia doesn't know if he's going to leave her covered in frostbite or third-degree burns.

_Danger, danger,_ whispers the the neon sign its buzzing voice, but the light in one letter is growing dimmer, goes out, and is followed by another. Another and another. Then it's completely dark.

She really should be telling him that he needs to leave, like yesterday. Why isn't she telling him to leave? Oh yes, because he still has her hand trapped within his and she doesn't want him to let go. He slowly runs his fingers over her knuckles, still raw and painful to the touch. She had made more contact with the floor than she had with Judy's skin. Lia winces at the contact and he drops her hand to write something else on his notepad. Lia blushes when he shows it to her.

_We never did finish what we started. _

She attempts to work up some indignation. "We didn't start anything," she points out to him.

He smirks. _You're right. Now's the time._

Just as the words start to sink in, he tosses his notepad aside and reaches for her. Too late, Lia realizes what his intentions are and is too startled to react when he seizes her by the waist and pulls her to him, pressing her body against his. She automatically places her hands against his chest as if she could force some distance between them if she wanted to but it seems kind of futile considering the firm grip he has on her. Again, she can't help but notice his hands; the sheer feel of their size and the way his fingers stretch out on her waist, the strength in them. It's a miracle he hasn't burned any holes through her jeans. Lia feels a little thrill race through her when he sneaks his thumb under the hem of her sweater and starts rubbing the bare skin underneath.

If her anger is a house fire, then her arousal is a rampaging flood overtaking that fire and there's no dam to hold it back. She wants him, but she's angry with him and suspicious of him; how does she know he's not going to do something weird like stick a knife in her while they're fucking? On the other hand (and this one's choking the fuck out of her self-preservation), if he wanted to kill her, why hasn't he done it already? Fuck, the way he keeps rubbing her skin like that and the way he's still staring at her just makes her more aware of the ache inside her that needs to be fulfilled.

Lia feels her tension ebb away as she reaches up and holds his face in both hands (she has to stand on tiptoe because he's so tall). "We've got an hour," she tells him, "And if I get fired for fucking you in the break room of my work place, it'll be your head that I'll put on a-"

He cuts her off by dipping his head and catching her lips in such a searing kiss that all of the thoughts had been bubbling inside her head fly straight out the window. There is nothing gentle about his kiss or the way his arm is wrapped possessively around her waist or the way his fingers are knotted painfully tight in her hair; there is nothing gentle about him at all. This is need, this is lust, this is want. There is no romance entering the equation. This is the result of when you meet a stranger in a bar and you want nothing more but what their flesh will yield. And what he will yield to her is all that Lia wants.

Kissing him back is like reaching for an item on a high self and just barely grabbing it; it's the same with him. It's not that just he's tall that makes him physically unreachable, but his height does lend him a certain emotional distance that's hard to reach, and Lia wants to reach it. The way he's kissing her tells her that he's used to taking more after what he's already been given; greedy to be sure, but it's rather flattering that he wants more instead of less. Lia can give him more as long as he returns the favor.

Lia digs her hands into his coat, wishing that it was skin her nails were raking; the wild urge to just knock him flat on his back and rip off all his clothes is ping-ponging back and forth in the darker, more primitive corners of her mind. His body has already caught up with the wants of his mind, what one hand ripping her hair out of its ponytail and the other jamming itself down the back of her jeans, down her underwear to give her ass a good squeeze, and fucking hell, those fingers on her skin. She wonders what other magic he can work with those fingers of his.

It goes on, their lips breaking apart and moving to skin (she nips at his ear and he kisses her scar); their hands grabbing and kneading and burrowing under clothes (her hand rubbing at the bulge in his jeans, his hand disappearing up her shirt and under her bra to fondle a breast). It's not enough, never enough. They are no longer people but creatures made solely of want and need and the only thing that will satisfy these creatures lies in the meeting of the flesh.

Then his hands are scooping her up and dumping her on the surprisingly sturdy foldout table (how long it will actually support her weight Lia doesn't know). Her hands fly to her jeans while he pulls out a condom; Lia awkwardly wriggles out of her jeans and underwear over her boots (which she takes off next, along with her socks) and he has the condom in his teeth while he's unzipping. Now his jeans are on the floor and he has the condom on faster than Lia has ever seen, and his large hands are spreading her legs apart and he yanks her closer by her ankles, nearly knocking her on her back, to pull her onto him and the way they fit together is mismatched, like shoving random puzzle pieces together, but it's perfect in a way; he's big and she's wet, and the fullness of him, even though somewhat uncomfortable, drives away the emptiness of everything that left her raw and open and jagged.

His hands on her hips, her hands on his shoulders. The leathery feel of his jacket beneath her fingers, the clean, male smell of him. He's digging his fingers so hard into her hips that she knows she's going to have bruises later on. She fists one hand into his hair, tangles her fingers in his curls. Her legs around his hips, trying to pull him even deeper inside, as if she could pull all of him into her. This ancient dance is the only dance not to involve feet making patterns on solid earth; it has a whole different kind of rhythm, creates music of despair and hate, music of lust and need, music of love and ecstasy. This is where either heaven and hell comes into creation, this act that only takes a moment to conceive gods on earth, monsters in masks, and everybody else in-between.

That a complete stranger is fucking her on a table, that he is making himself at home in the most physically intimate place on her body without any sort of emotional trade is as fulfilling as it gets. It's an exchange of a different kind, of skin and mutual desire. She doesn't want flowers, he doesn't want loving kisses. She doesn't want a ring and he doesn't want to offer any sort of attachment that can't be immediately severed. This moment is the only thing that will tie them together, a thin thread of memory. But memory fades and the thread snaps, and that's when there's finally nothing left.

Now he has one arm around her waist while his other hand plunges between their connected bodies, between her legs to work a different sort of magic. Magic that shoots lightning through her body and starts unwinding her with every movement of his fingers. Her breathing's grown ragged and she can't help the little grunts and gasps that he's pulling from her. He has this cocky smirk on his face that she wants to rip straight off but those kissable lips were fucking amazing on her own so he's safe for now. That, and the fact that he's actually making a goddamn effort to get her off earns him extra points.

Unfortunately, Lia manages to ruin the moment by saying something stupid. "You're a fucking stud," she manages to gasp out before she can stop herself. "You're fucking amazing."

Before she can kick herself for speaking (_all _of her previous partners had complained about her ruining the sex with her big mouth), he responds in a way that catches her completely off-guard: he speaks. Out loud.

"Be quiet," he tells her in a deep, oddly-accented voice, continuing at his pace as if there was nothing unusual.

Lia is so shocked that she momentarily loses her pace and almost slides right off him. He could _speak? _

Her reaction must have been funny because he laughs at her. Out loud. Lia gapes at him, and he winks at her, and she finds herself talking again.

"You can talk? You're deaf, but you actually talk-"

Lia shrieks in surprise as he suddenly grabs her legs, pulls them up and balances them against his broad shoulders; an uncomfortable position, this brings her close to the edge of the table, with his arms snared around her lower back. The angle spreads her open more, allowing him to hit sensitive, untouched spots that he didn't reach before, inciting little bursts of pleasure that indicates she's right at the peak of her orgasm. He speaks again. "Shut up."

Lia doesn't respond, can't respond, and all thoughts she had about his speaking disappear. The tension is growing tighter and tighter until it snaps, and the sudden rush is nothing less than an overwhelming flood raging inside her body. He soon follows her, his body stiffening and he releases a loud grunt as he makes several more erratic thrusts before he finishes and slumps over her. The orgasm wrings her out like a rag, leaving her feeling limp and languid. As the orgasm wears off, wild waves falling back to a placid ocean lapping smoothly at the shore, Lia can now feel the stiffness in her legs and the muscles in them seizing up tightly.

Unfortunately, she can't move because the jackass has her practically pinned underneath him, breathing heavily, his elbows on the table right by her face holding him up and locking her in. Her legs are still on his shoulders and what with the way he's leaning forward on her, Lia feels like she's about to do a back roll right off the damn table. She taps him on the head with her bare foot and that seems to get his attention.

"Hey jackass, I'd like to stretch my legs sometime this year." Judy always told her she had shitty bedroom manners, but who used manners when you were done with the guy and were ready for him to fuck off?

He pulls out of her and away from her, and Lia nearly falls off the table when she lowers her legs. She feels as if weights had been tied to her ankles, but she manages to get to her feet anyway. Her legs wobble as she reaches for her underwear and jeans. She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't bother to look at him, instead turning her gaze onto the clock. Thankfully, there's still thirty minutes in Anna's lunch break. She stares at the clock while she's putting her boots on until she feels compelled to look at him, being in the process of zipping up his jeans with a very smug and satisfied look on his face. Dick.

He meets her eyes and, smirking, deliberately drops the used condom on the floor. This immediately breaks the post-coitus awkwardness (there is never any bliss) that had been starting to settle on her and now she feels justified in her feelings of wanting to rip his head off.

"That's disgusting!" Lia snarls at him. "You pick that up right now!"

He gives her a challenging look that all but says, _Make me. _

Lia sighs in annoyance. If only to do something other than resist the urge to punch him in his smug, handsome face, she bends over to pick up the condom between her fingers, only to receive a playful pinch on her bottom for her trouble. Jesus, what ever happened to the guys who went straight to ignoring you after sex?

Crinkling her face in disgust, Lia wraps the condom up in a paper towel and tosses it in the trash can, hoping that Mrs. Watson wouldn't be tempted to unwrap it. It wasn't uncommon for her follow co-workers to use the break room as a place for a good screw, as she was usually the one who had to pick up the condoms and wipe down the goddamn table (which she would have to do after he left). It was easy to get away with using the break room as one's personal little brothel considering that Mrs. Watson usually spent most of her time hosting poker games with her friends, but the old hag had eagle eyes for spotting anything that was out of place.

Lia glances at the clock again. Jesus fucking Christ, when was the lunch break going to end? She turns to Ian, who's just staring at her with that blank face again, and she tells him, "As fun as that was, you need to leave. The store reopens in twenty minutes and you can come back then."

_And I'll be paying a visit to Donnie, that little fucker. _

He stares at her. All the playfulness is gone; his eyes have iced over once again and his face is turning back to stone. He shakes his head slowly. _No. _

The fear is starting to trickle back into her veins, but Lia manages to keep her voice from shaking as she says, "Look, I could get fired just for letting you stay here during the lunch hour. You _have_ to leave."

When he turns and heads towards the door, Lia is sure she's won. But her triumph swiftly turns to horror as soon as she hears the door click shut and Ian leans against it, his arms crossed against his chest, the expression on his face hardening to something that scares her. He crooks a finger at her. _C'mere. _

In the darkness of her mind, the animal is bouncing off the walls of its cage, howling, foaming at the mouth. Its howling is filling her veins, spreading throughout her body until Lia feels like bouncing off the walls herself. This is what being prey feels like. She scans the room for anything that may be used as a weapon, her eyes falling on things before dismissing them for their impracticality. He'd get to her before she could swing that folding chair at him; she'd only hurt herself putting her fist through the glass to get the ax (and he'd get to her anyway); going at him with her fists seems to be the only, and most ridiculous, was a scrapper in school and won plenty of fights barehanded, from push-and-shoves with the popular girls to knockdown, drag-out slaughters with tough stoner chicks (some of whom eventually wound up in the state pen) that earned her bloody noses and black eyes.

But she also lost plenty of fights, a few of which were spectacular losses that had her on the ground and under attack by a barrage of kicking feet, or her being held back and subjected to painful punches in the gut, and, the one that really stands out, the one where that girl came at her with a switchblade and the frightening terror of being blinded by her own blood brought her down to her knees and the only reason she wasn't "gutted like the pig that you are," is because her uncle made an appearance and by then his presence was enough to send anybody running. She never fought a man except Shane, and though he was only five foot nine and built like a scarecrow, he still managed to put her in the hospital; a man as big and molded for violence like Ian is likely to put her beneath the ground.

So she just makes her way towards him-a few steps only, the room isn't very big-hoping that he won't shank her or something of the sort, making sure to keep some semblance of distance between them, if only for her sake of mind. He reaches into his jacket, giving her a glimpse of a holstered handgun tucked into an inner pocket, and pulls out a manila file folder that he holds out to her. This time she can't stop her hand from shaking as she takes it from him.

Flipping it open, she first finds herself staring at a picture clipped to the first page, a picture that was obviously taken without her fucking consent, before she looks over the page itself. All her basic and personal information, including home address, e-mail, cell number, and such. She flips that page over to find information on all her dirty deeds: the petty thefts, break-ins, and vandalism she had been committing since she was ten; the selling and trading she had been doing with Sam the last few years (mostly of illegal guns that she had amassed when he used her as a runner over in Wisconsin) and, worst of all, the two major heists he had paid her, and a couple of other nameless accomplices, to pull, including that one down in Duluth. There's even a copy of her fucking police record (which only contains the misdemeanors that she had been caught for).

Then there's the picture clipped to that page. Just by looking at it, Lia can tell that it had been taken six months ago. The one of her and Hess posing outside of Bemidji right in front of that ugly-ass sign welcoming people to ugly-ass Bemidji. He's standing right behind, practically obscuring the sign behind them, one hand planted on her shoulder, wearing a large smile. She was caught laughing, her eyes squeezed shut, the summer wind whipping her loose hair around her face. She's clutching an M16 and Lia can't remember for the life of her who she had gotten it from, but she remembers that she really loved that rifle.

Fucking hell. What she was thinking, allowing pictures? Wait, Hess was the one who wanted the pictures and Gold was the one who took them. Lia remembered how strange she had thought it was at the time considering that Hess, despite him being her uncle and her mother's half-brother, had never been very sentimental, considering the rough start he had in life, growing up in Bemidji's sole trailer park where the poorest residents lived, having to fight and claw his way almost all the way from the bottom to the very top; he had been a man who couldn't afford to be sentimental, even with her. But in his own way, he had shown that he had cared, despite all of his flaws (big ones, too: racism, homophobia and the like), and that was more than Lia could say for her own parents.

She is so immersed in her thoughts that when Ian taps her on the shoulder, she jumps and nearly drops the picture; she had almost forgotten that he was still here. He's pulling something else out of his jacket now (just how many pockets did he have anyway?). He holds out two more photos and Lia takes them. One of them is an up-close pic of the welcome sign to Bemidji, and it's riddled with bullet holes. Despite herself, Lia finds herself smiling. She remembered that there had been a large investigation into the shooting of the sign and the indignation of the residents for months to come had been hilarious on its own.

The other picture is also of her and Hess, standing in front of the ruined sign, looking like a pair of idiots caught in enthusiastic poses: her holding the rifle in one hand, pointed straight up at the sky, her head thrown back in wild laughter, while Hess looks like he's about to make a great leap in the air (which he did with a loud whoop), and after that they had jumped in Sam's truck and had made a fast getaway, even though there had been no cops after them. The police never did find out who shot up the sign, and the incident (much to Lia's delight) had been absorbed into town lore, a little piece of "what the fuck?" that could be told over and over again. Just looking at the picture unearths the sadness Lia had been trying to bury for the last week.

Hess had done a lot for her that her own so-called "family" didn't. When she was eleven, playing by herself at the park, some creep had tried to snatch her up and would have done away with her if it hadn't been for Hess. Hess, who had hardly even known her at the time, was the one who beat the shit out of the guy, not her father. When she had gotten caught breaking into a neighbor's house at seventeen, Hess was the one who had paid both bail and bribe for the cops and judge to look the other way; her parents had wanted her to be tossed in juvie. On his useful advice, she had never gotten caught breaking and entering from that point forward. After visiting her in the hospital that her psycho ex had so kindly put her in four years ago, Hess took it into his hands to make Shane "disappear." His body was never found (though Hess told her the location of his grave so she could go spit on it whenever the hell she wanted), and the anguish on his bitch mother's face never failed to give her pleasure whenever she saw her on the street; her brother had taken Shane's side and asked her what she had done to provoke him (the "woman deserving a good beating" mentality remained strong in Bemidji, despite what everybody said). Hess was the one who had paid her well (better than many of his regular employees) for the jobs she was willing to pull for him and thanks to him, she had enough saved up to make her escape and start a whole new life, somewhere far away from the shitstain that was Bemidji.

Unfortunately for her, that's no longer an option thanks to Ian and his creepy friend lurking around town, harassing her for old shit she's been trying to bury.

Speaking of which, the red-haired devil himself scribbles something down on his notepad; Lia hadn't even seen him pick it up again and why the fuck is she wondering this when she could be kicking him in the nuts and making her escape? _Because he could take you down on the ground before you even reached your target,_ says the little cynical voice in her head. Oh. That's why. Fuck.

He taps the close-up of the bullet-riddled sign and flips the notepad around to show her his response.

_I'd say this one is my favorite, but-_

Why is he smiling like that? This is turning out to be one of the strangest quickes she's ever had with a stranger (and that's saying something considering the kind of weirdos she's slept with). She's honestly not sure if she should still be scared of him or not.

To get her mind off the strangeness of the situation, she opens her mouth to ask him who the fuck he got his information from (she knows already, but she wants him to confirm it), but he's scribbling something else down and now he's showing it to her.

_I'd be lying. You holding that rifle gave me the biggest- _

Lia closes her eyes before she finishes reading that sentence. This isn't happening. She's not locked in the break room with some lunatic from a bar (who she just screwed) who has information on her and who might possibly have more nefarious purposes in mind. Nope, it's just a ridiculous dream and she's going to wake up any minute now.

Any minute now.

_Any fucking minute now._

Lia opens her eyes and Ian's still there, wearing the same smirk that Lia's sure she's going to be seeing around town for awhile. This is not a dream. This is a nightmare come to life.

At this point, Lia's completely sure of one thing: this is the kind of shit that happens when your best friend tries to hook you up with some stranger in a shitty bar.

* * *

_I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole_

_'Til there's nothing left inside my soul_

_As empty as that beating drum_

_But the sound has just begun_

* * *

**A/N: **

_0.1. _Street Filthy Boy is an actual book. Look it up on the B&N website. The synopsis is hilarious.. xDD

_0.2._ In Cold Blood by Truman Capote is an amazing book and I would recommend it to everyone who likes crime fiction. One of my many headcanons is that "In Cold Blood" is one of Mr. Wrench's favorite books. xD

1.) Holy shit, this is my longest chapter so far and let me tell you, I was sick of it by the time I finished it. ARGH, this chapter is over 10,000 words, pretty much double the word count of my last two chapters. I'm currently working on an origin story for Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench, so that's what I'll probably post next before I start writing the fourth chapter because I seriously need a break from this story thanks to this chapter.

2.) I hope you guys don't mind that the chapter is mostly filler. I kinda wanted to write about what Mr. Numbers and Mr. Wrench are doing before they go nab the picture of Malvo from Duluth. Hitmen deserve to have some fun too, you know. xDD Also, the scene where Lia meets Mr. Numbers in the gas station was inspired by a small scene from trailer that I can no longer find.

3.) I've got nothing left to say except that I hope the smut was passable and not too cheesy. I'm really sorry that it wasn't longer, but this was the hardest part of the chapter to write and I didn't want to ruin by dragging it out too long. (Bonus TMI: I've had sex while having a hangover, does this make me a weirdo? xDD)

P.S. I lied. I'm on Tumblr! My username is "ascoldasitgets" and I sometimes like to gush about Mr. Wrench or post silly little headcanons. Feel free to send me message, I like to gush with other people. :)


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